


He Is The Sun

by nicpic



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, POV Jean, Setting Exploration, a bit wistful, mild jeangst, theres some hopeful bits too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic
Summary: A series of drabbles centering around Jean Vicquemare, with several surrounding his relationship with Harry pre-Martinaise. I'll add to this as I go along.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. I Shall Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revachol remembers the determination of a Seolite mother. Jean is granted it.

Between a collapsing pharmacy and the river is an overgrown parking lot, situated next to a small shopping center: a relic of when the Moralintern had attempted to “reinvigorate” the Burnt Out Quarter, back when its newly christened nickname hadn’t seemed everlasting. Black asphalt crumbles under soft brown roots, and it powders in the whistle of the wind, hints of it darkening the edge of your trousers.

Tall, blonde grass sways, tickling the underside of your chin. When you fall, unable to resist any longer, the strands under you graciously cease their dance to cushion your body from the concrete, bending and snapping and becoming broken just for you: it will grow anew, you assure yourself. They cradle you, shielding the worst of the sun from your tired eyes.

Decades ago, a Seolite mother, still raw from being granted that title, approached the empty parking lot, at this point only black in color. She carried a rusted spade, some dirt, and a worn leather purse stuffed full of weeds. 

She kneeled on the broken asphalt, where you now lie, and carefully unpacked the contents of her purse. Some dandelion. Some grass. Some small pink blossom she uprooted on the way here. They piled up beside her, and that task completed, she renewed her grip on her spade and began chipping away at the crack beneath her. 

Black asphalt crumbled under soft brown hands, and it powdered in the whistle of the wind, hints of it darkening the pads of her fingers.

In some parts of Seol, the women plant trees to commemorate the birth of their child. Sweet fruit for daughters, to hope for beauty and fertility, sturdy pine for sons, to hope for strength. But she is in Revachol, and her child will need something more than beauty or strength to thrive in the disgraced capital of the world. There are no trees in the Burnt Out Quarter, but weeds? Weeds will provide the tenacity her child requires.

And as she filled the holes she’d made with the future of her firstborn, she prayed to gods she’d forgotten long ago, stolen by cruel Occidental school children and time.

And as you lay there on plants grown thick, each subsequent generation of dandelion and grass and small pink blossoms nestled under your palms, dark blood lost in fiber and leaf, you pray to gods that’d abandoned you long ago. Pray that Harry will come. That you’ll continue to feel the sunlight on your cheek for just a little while longer, and the city whispers her determination into your ear.

Weeds are unwanted, she thought. Undesired. But every time one rips its leaves away, mangles it beyond recognition, they sprout once again. And is that not enough? To endure, despite it all. To grow against the odds and live. And for this, you shall survive.

And for this, I shall love you.


	2. Beyond the Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Harry sit by the ocean.

Looking at the ocean, you wouldn’t know it ever ended. Waves of black, waves of green, waves of blue: stretching on and on until they crest over the foggy horizon, guided by the glinting lights of distant aerostatics. Two fishing boats sit upon the curve of the world. You silently wish them luck.

The clink of a bottle. Your partner uncaps a fresh pilsner and takes a drink. He hands it to you. You accept. The first mouthful pricks coldly down your throat and the second is smoother, and then you bury the bottom half of the glass in the grey sand. It stays upright.

With a soft *poomf* Harry leans back and splays himself on the beach, limbs thrown in boyish, careless contentment. He smiles, a soft wind blowing a strand of hair out of his face. He beckons, gesturing widely, for you to join him.

The ocean ends, you think. Beyond the beach, the waves. Beyond the waves, the pale. But from here, it seems like it would last forever. If you took a small skiff and sailed into its depths, what would you find? And would you capsize before you learned of the end?

A pair of seagulls circle above. “C’mon,” he says.

You lean back and the crook of his arm nestles the bottom of your head. The ocean hides the worst of the smell, not that you would’ve minded. His body shields you from the cold. You close your eyes.

From here, you think. It seems like it would last forever.


	3. Vestiges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean moves into a new apartment.

The last tenant of your apartment left little else but a carefully folded sheet of yellow, blue lined paper in the center of the bedroom. Setting the box of clothes down, you bend down and pick it up and unfold it.

You can usually pay rent about one or two weeks late, if you’re desperate, it says. The landlord likes cherries, so buy that for him once in a while to butter him up. 

Paper in hand and still reading, you go back to the entrance to pick up another box and carry it in. A stapler falls off from the top of the pile. You’ll pick it up later.

Water pressure is pretty good, but hot water is hard to come by. Showering midday is a good idea, but if you can’t do that, shower as early as possible.

Kitchen appliances go here. The desk you’ll have to assemble soon; you have some paperwork to fill out. You pick at your beard. Maybe you should trim it. You retrieve the stapler.

Don’t use the microwave and the stove top at the same time. If you do, one of them will turn itself off. Be careful of the third step down on the rightmost stairway leading down from this floor. It’s a little shaky. There’s no smoke detector, so smoke as much as you want.

You shift the sofa a little to the left. It faces the window, open, letting in the afternoon breeze. You look into the bathroom. It’s immaculate.

The guy who had the place before me hollowed a little hiding place under the second floorboard on the right side of the bedroom. If you press the bottommost edge of it, the board flips up and there's a space to put your valuables.

You test the board out. Underneath is a small cubbyhole, completely empty. However, the scent of strong tobacco has permanently stained the wood below. The good, expensive kind.

And lastly, say hi to Larisa for me. She owns the grocery near the Frittte. Good luck. I hope you’ll find a home here. A smiley face takes up the rest of the page.

Finished reading, you gingerly refold the paper, tracing the seams its writer imprinted onto the thin yellow, and place it upon the kitchenette top. You’ll keep it for reference, for now.

And as you settle upon the windowsill of your new bedroom, lighting a cigarette, Revachol smiles; the smell of smoke, cheaper but similar enough, making a familiar winding way up and out of that fifth floor window and into the whirling stars. A custom, continued.


	4. Treasure Under Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Harry earn a little bit of free cash during the winter.

The streets are completely empty, this late at night. It’s quiet enough to hear the snow fall, each speck softly layering upon one another until the world is muted and grey and white, the brown skies hiding hints of blue where city lights cannot reach. Latent traces of humanity erased under ice, lamp posts of yellow reflecting flecks brilliant. You can see your every breath. You can see his.

The cold stone you’re sitting on starts to seep through the thick, wool overcoat, the two sweaters, the shirt, and the sweatpants. You shift a bit, rub your gloved hands together. You’ll be fine, but Harry—you look over your shoulder—Harry has taken off his jacket and rolled up one sleeve, seemingly impervious to the cold. 

He grins. “Witness.” He draws back a fist. “Masculinity.” And slams through the thick layer of ice coating the fountain you sit at the edge of.

You cross your arms and hunch over on yourself. “Fucking chauvinist,” you mutter.

Like most things in Grand Couron, the fountain looks more expensive than the sum total of any equivalent you’d find outside of the district. It is as large as a swimming pool, circular in shape: the heart of the extravagant shopping district Harry dragged you to. In its center is a brass statue of Her Innocence, turned verdigris long ago. She gazes in your direction, silent and dispassionate. The stained glass of her lungs gleams coldly, lit from within. 

Harry murmurs to himself as he works, indistinct and lost to the snow. He’s already scavenged a significant pile of coins from the bottom of the fountain. The tips of his trembling fingers are bright red. He blows on them. You smirk. He glares at you.

Ten minutes later, half the contents of the fountain sitting in the plastic bag you brought, in case he forgot his, Harry finally shrugs his jacket back on. He’s genuinely, seriously shivering now. Each shaky breath disappears into the black of the night, curls around the icicles of Dolores Dei’s outstretched arm. Frost gently encrusts his mutton chops, glittering, sparkling like diamond dust. Cold lends a certain ethereal clarity his eyes; it’s a good look.

You sigh and take off your overcoat and drape it over his shoulders. “Idiot,” you reprimand. Rustling fabric. A muffled sigh of contentment. He draws the coat tighter, absorbing the warmth you imparted upon it. The gloves, next. They should fit him; a bit too large for you, but they were on sale. The scars underneath ache in the cold.

A mischievous look caught at the last second. An arm shoots out and the frigid hand attached attempts to wriggle under your sweaters. You manage to escape in time and punch him in the shoulder. He laughs, then winces at the pain. He puts one glove on, then proffers the other to you.

“We’ll come back when winter’s over,” he promises. You accept the glove and put it on. He smiles. You grin.

Two months later, he goes to Martinaise.


	5. Slower Than Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They dance.

*Click.* The turn of the dial, the radio crackling, then he smiles as the opening to some Sad FM song plays. He turns back to you, holds your hand in his. He presses his body to yours, until you can feel both your hearts beating steadily into the other, sedate and rhythmic, giving and taking, speeding and slowing depending on the cycle of breath. Muted sunlight diffuses through your apartment, softly carpeting the floor in gold. The lyrics begin.

_ Let’s kiss and let’s forget _

_ And hold each other tight _

_ Touch my hair, I’ll touch your hip _

_ And we’ll find warmth, not regret _

He leads, you follow. The hand nestled in the small of your back is large, warm. The first step is tentative; the next, even more so. He raises his arm, but you get the cue too late. He giggles. “You were supposed to spin, Jean.” You kick him in the shin, but he continues laughing. You raise *your* arm, and he twirls gracefully under your hand. A strand of hair catches on his bottom lip.

_ Let’s kiss and let’s forget _

_ Of times past and done _

_ Hand on neck, fist on cheek _

_ Of the stench of blood and sweat _

You stop and he stares, transfixed. You brush the strand away, fingers lingering on his chin, over a scar you left there, once. The air is charged with something new, now. Each of his breaths caress your trembling palm.

_ So come here, closer _

_ We can dance, solar— _

_ System orbit, slower— _

_ Than memory _

And you lean in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on Kronk's doodles of these two! Find it here: https://twitter.com/DankHank360/status/1330653827176013824?s=20


	6. That's Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Jean are a bit older now.

**‘57 Central Jamrock**

“You’re 50, now.” Sunlight streams from the half-shuttered window of your bedroom, casting Harry’s face in a soft glow. You pick up the ashtray on the windowsill and deposit in on the middle of the bed. Rustling and a gentle pat; he makes room for you beside him.

“Yeah, half a century. Wisdom beyond my fucking years.” He lights your cigarette with the lighter on the nightstand. You sit down.

You chuckle. “Fucking *ancient.* Ah—” You manage to stabilize the ashtray before it tips over from Harry’s attempted kick to your shin. “Careful, shitkid. If you get ash on my bed, you’re the one scrubbing it out.”

He sniffs, presses himself deeper into the mattress. “You’re 40, yourself. How does it feel to be middle aged?”

“Better than fucking ever.” You theatrically lean back on the small mountain of pillows you constructed for yourself. They help with your back.

“Liar.” He helps you settle in.

You blow a cloud of smoke in his face.

The two of you lay there for a while, basking in the morning sun, listening to each other breathe. At one point Harry rests the left side of his head on your chest and taps along with your heartbeat. You laugh quietly at him, and he glares at you half-heartedly before continuing.

“Jean.” Tap. Tap.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” He moves his hand so it rests over your sternum.

You conk him gently on the forehead. “What for, shitkid?”

He lifts his face. You study the wrinkles around his eyes; they only get deeper with every year. “You were 29 when I was assigned your partner, right?”

A grunt in acknowledgement. Another cigarette, lighted. “29 to 34. A partnership of five years,” you note. Unusually short in any other precinct except Jamrock, where officers drop like flies. Count your lucky stars that both of you are still alive.

He fiddles with the hem of your shirt. “...That should’ve been the prime years of your life. Of your career.”

You sigh. “Harry—”

“I know. We’ve had this argument ‘a million fucking times, shitkid.’” He tries to impersonate you, pulling the sides of his face down and affecting a chain-smoker’s rasp. The voice is too low though. You kick him and he grins, before sobering. “Doesn’t make it less fucked up.”

“He’s dead, shitkid. Dead and gone for six years.”

“Yeah but—”

“*You’re* here.” You stub out your cigarette. Lean over him and hold his face to yours. “And that’s enough.”


End file.
